


Saviour of the Damned

by AgentJoanneMills



Series: Tomorrow at the End of the World [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (at least towards the end), (i guess), (kind of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cori Hedgren, F/F, Family, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Gen, One Shot, Queer the walking dead - Freeform, Reincarnation, aka QtWDverse!Aden, because why not, lexark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:24:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7850329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentJoanneMills/pseuds/AgentJoanneMills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The apocalypse is here.</p><p>There’s no saviour.</p><p>Or, at least, not the one the religious folk had been singing praises about.</p><p>Alternatively: He is the boy who lived.</p><p>(Set in the same universe as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6222745">Kiss Me, Kill Me; It's Just The Same, Isn't It?</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saviour of the Damned

**Author's Note:**

> *Recognizable elements belong to their respective owners.  
> **Work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended.

 

You are not scared.

You are _not_.

 

You are, honestly, way past scared and are, in fact, extremely _terrified_.

 

You don’t want to admit that you’re terrified, though. No one ever wants that, obviously.

And even if you wanted to, there’s no one to whom you could admit it, anyway.

 

You’re kind of all alone.

 

****

 

It didn’t start that way, of course.

You have a family. Well, _had_. You had a father and a mother and you were all happy together and you were supposed to go on an epic vacation adventure.

But now, the only part of that happening is the _adventure_ part—and it’s not the good kind either.

 

Sure, you like action films and heroic fantasies as much as the next kid but _this_?

 _This_ is, in a word, _horrible_.

 

 _This_ , of course, pertains to the end of the freaking world.

 

****

 

Your story starts like this:

 

Your family had been planning on going on a road trip of sorts for some time, and when your dad won his company a big client, he was also given a _big_ bonus, and that came with vacation perks too.

So, naturally, that was when you all decided to act on the plan, and embark on the trip you did.

You loaded up your dad’s trusty Ford with camping gear and other stuff. Your mom sang along with the radio from the shotgun, while you claimed the backseat, in charge of the map.

“I thought shotgun’s supposed to be the navigator?” your dad ribbed.

“He’s my apprentice,” your mom said, reaching back to ruffle your hair. “So backseat has the controls now.” She looked at you proudly, and you puffed up your chest, taking this responsibility with all the seriousness a thirteen-year-old could muster.

So you gave them directions (“North . . . uh, no, take the next right!”) during the drive, and your dad just went along with it (“Sure-o, Supreme-o.”), and your mom just looked at you two fondly, shaking her head when you somehow messed up (“Are we sure we’re not lost?”), and you settled in whichever town or city or little village you stumbled upon with your (frankly) dismal map-reading skills, and it’s _fantastic_.

Days like that bled into weeks. You’d laugh as your dad tried to serenade your mom when classic Elvis tunes came up on the radio, and she’d roll her eyes but would also blush like a rose, and you’d look at them with fake disgust because of their sappiness.

“You guys are so gross,” you’d complain, your eyes dancing with glee.

“You’ll eat your words when you find a gal of your own, son,” your dad would say. Then he’d add, winking at you at the rearview mirror, “Perhaps even a nice boy or somethin’.”

“Whoever it turns out to be, it will be in the _far_ future, Cori,” your mom would warn, an eyebrow raised, but she’d have a wide smile on her face, and you’d know she’s just messing with you. Probably. Okay, so maybe she was 97 percent serious with that, but you surely didn’t mind.

 

All that mattered was regardless of whichever point in the earth you happened to be, you felt at home, because you had your father and your mother, and they’re being annoyingly sappy and in love and your heart was full to bursting with love for them, and you _knew_ that the only one they loved maybe more than each other was _you_.  

And you wanted, more than anything, this little bubble of happiness to last.

 

****

 

Nothing lasts forever, though.

Nothing ever does.

 

****

 

Another couple of weeks in, you realized just how utterly fucked (your mother would have never forgiven the use of such word, but . . .) the world turned out to be.

 

****

 

Your story ends like this:

A stupid car collision in a seemingly deserted town.

Your father’s head bloody against the steering wheel.

Your mother trying desperately to get to you.

Your mother sobbing as she finally stumbled out of the car with you, leaning against her with blank eyes.

Your mother gasping.

Your mother crying even harder as she looked at your father . . . your father being torn apart by creatures that seemed vaguely human.

Your mother . . .

 

“Run, Cori. _Run_.”

 

There’s enough steel in that beloved voice to get your attention—that voice that had been singing love songs just minutes before—and through your addled brain, you registered the urgency, the pleading.

She pushed a backpack into your arms, kissed you on the forehead, and repeated: “Run.”

 

You turned around and ran.

 

****

 

You ran even as you felt your legs turn to jelly.

You ran and ran and ran, but no matter how far you managed to go, still you heard the echoes.

 

Flesh ripping, blood dripping.

 

The cries and the screams, tinged with desperation and helplessness.

 

You ran.

 

****

 

Everything ends. You know that.

 

Everything ends . . . even the world.

 

****

 

Your parents die.

The world ends.

 

You’re thirteen years old. You tighten your grip on the bag’s straps and take a deep breath.

You’re thirteen years old.

You’re alone.

You fight to survive.

 

****

 

You’ve always been a fast learner. (You take after your mother, your dad used to say.)

So you learn how to scavenge, how to salvage, how to stay alive.

You’re alone.

 

****

 

When you were younger, your dad used to bring you to this park a couple of blocks away from home. He let you play with other neighborhood children while he sat on a bench, reading serious-looking thick books with hardbound covers and minimalist designs.

You asked him why he read something that looked so heavy.

“So that I can think outside the prescribed consensus and not be held down by the status quo,” he answered over his wire-rimmed glasses.

You understood like 0 percent of that. You peered at the title. “What’s a communist?”

“Someone who refuses to perpetuate the capitalist system and wants to depose the corporate overlords that feed on the involuntary servitude the masses are forced to join in so that they could at least eat a meal a day.”

You shrugged, then went on to play ball with a couple of other kids. When you looked back, an old woman was talking to your dad, handing him some sort of brochure.

 

****

 

“What did the old lady want?” you asked him later, on your way back to the house. Your mom’s waiting, and she said she’d be making falafel, so you’re kind of excited.

“Hmm?” Your dad looked down, thoughtful, then he remembered. “Oh yeah. Religious stuff. You know, Sunday school thing.”

“Why am I not in Sunday school?” You’re curious, because several of your classmates were in it.

“Do you want to be?”

You thought about that, recalling how those classmates acted and behaved. They followed the rules. They got acceptable grades.

You did too.

The difference was you did not act stuck up about it. (At least you hoped not.)

“No.”

“Neither did I, when I was your age.” Your dad grinned. “It’s not for everyone.”

“Why would anyone want to go to school on Sundays?”

At that he laughed. “Religion, son,” he said. “Some days are seen as holy days for a bunch of religious reasons. For Christians, it’s Sunday. On Sundays, they worship God and study the Bible to keep him happy, so they won’t get killed on the end of the world.”

“It’s the end of the world,” you said. “How can they _not_ get killed?”

“Well, they believe a saviour will come for them. You know about Christ, right? Apparently he’ll be back to save his people when the apocalypse comes.”

 

****

 

The apocalypse is here.

There’s no saviour.

 

****

 

Or, at least, not the one the religious folk had been singing praises about.

 

****

 

It’s the end of the world.

 _Your_ saviour comes astride a silent Harley Davidson, wearing a black leather jacket and an arrogant smirk.

 

Your saviour is a woman, and she’s not Jewish.

 

You’re also pretty sure there is nothing holy about her, if her cursing is anything to go by.

 

And yet, with her halo of golden hair and her bright blue eyes, you can feel the Magnificat bubbling in your tongue.

 

****

 

“What’s your name?” she asks, after sweeping you off your feet—literally. (She pulled you on her motorbike after having just dispatched four of those vaguely human creatures that killed your parents. _Walkers_ , she called them, muttering about “brain-eating assholes” and “stupid rotten fuckers.”) You’re now in some sort of park; the open space makes you feel exposed, but the blonde saviour seems so unconcerned about it that you feel yourself relax a bit.

“Cori. Cori Hedgren.” You offer her a hand, because your parents drilled the importance of courtesy into you, and habits are hard to break.

She takes it, and you feel some sort of warmth spreading through you, like you’ve just drunk your dad’s special cocoa and eaten your mom’s peach cobbler—like you’re wrapped in your favourite blanket. _Like home_ _._ You don’t understand it.

She’s grinning, though, and there’s something almost like _pride_ in her gaze. “ _Hedgren_ , huh? Nice.”

You clear your throat, hiding your bewilderment. “Why is it nice?”

She shrugs. “Nothing.” Her blue eyes are sparkling in a way that decidedly does not mean _nothing_. “I’m Elyza. Elyza Lex.”

You scrunch you nose. “Lex? Like, Lex Luthor?”

“What, no!” She scowls, and you can describe it as petulant. “Why do people insist on associating me with him?”

You’re the one who shrugs this time. “It just, uh, seems . . .” you trail off, realizing that you should probably refrain from saying anything that might antagonize someone who saved your hide. “Never mind.”

She looks at you as if she knows what you mean to say, but she just sighs. “It’s not made up.”

“Okay.”

“Wow, you should try to be a bit more convincing than that.”

“Sure.”

She huffs, and then she catches sight of your smirk. “Oh really? That’s how you’re gonna repay me, boy?” Her eyes are narrowed, and you almost panic, but her tone is playfully teasing, and you ease up.

Your smirk turns into a small smile. “Thank you for that, by the way.” You clear your throat again. “I . . . I don’t know what I would’ve become if . . .” you gesture distantly, “—you know.”

“I know,” she agrees, eyes softening. “Life’s tough, kid, but it’s gonna be okay. You’re pretty tough too, I can tell.”

“Right,” you scoff. “I’m pretty good at the almost-dying thing.”

“You’re a kid,” she says, and something lodges in your throat then, because yes, you _are_ a kid, and it’s been a while since someone acknowledged that without demeaning you.

“Thank you,” you say again, because it’s all you have to give, and you feel smaller than ever. You want to hide, but there’s nowhere you can go, so you hunch your shoulders, wishing you can just disappear into yourself.

Elyza, however, won’t have that.

She steps closer to you, putting her arms around you, and you have no choice but to return the hug because you feel so weak, and you bury your face against her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, kid,” she whispers, so softly, and yet there’s some sort of strength in her voice that makes you want to believe that too.

 

You’re thirteen years old.

You’re an orphan.

But somehow, you don’t feel alone anymore.

 

****

 

“So where’re you headed?” Elyza asks, tossing you an apple she got from her bag.

You shine it on your shirt, though your shirt is now pretty much your mother’s definition of dirty. “I don’t know,” you answer, because you really don’t. “I’ve been making my way blindly, to be honest. I don’t really have anywhere to go.”

Elyza hears the unspoken words—that you have no family, now. She nods, sympathetic, but she doesn’t say “I’m sorry” or some other platitude. You’re grateful for that. “You could come with us,” she says instead.

You raise both eyebrows, trying to mask your hopefulness. “Us?”

She nods. “Yeah, I’m just waiting for my friends. We’re all supposed to meet up here. Gathering supplies, y’know, and I kinda got distracted. Lucky that I have a habit of being distractible, though, ’cause that’s how I ended up at yours.”

“Oh.” You gulp. You took her away from her obligations, and that just makes you feel even more of a mess. “I’m sorry.”

She laughs. “Don’t be, kiddo. It’s fate, I tell ya. It’s like the universe is telling me, ‘I owe you big time, so here, let me pay up.’ It’s pretty great.”

You don’t really get what she means, and she’s looking at you like you’re a prodigy (the same way your parents looked at you, you realize), when all you’re doing is eating an apple and being dumbfounded, but then you don’t get a chance to ask her about it because there’s a couple of pickup trucks rounding the corner, slowing down to a stop.

You stare as the first truck’s door immediately opens and a brunette girl steps out, striding purposely to Elyza, to whom she was glaring.

You stare as the brunette notices you, and falters, and freezes completely.

You stare as she swallows, her eyes tearing up, before smiling so beatifically.

You stare as she starts walking again, and you stare as she stops right in front of you.

You stare at green eyes, swirling with disbelief and hope and pride and love and joy.

 

And before you can even so much as blink, she launches herself at you . . .

. . . and at that first touch, you remember.

 

****

 

You’re crying. You know you’re crying. And you know you shouldn’t cry, not now—not in front of her. You’re supposed to be strong. You’re a nightblood. You’re strong. You’re her most promising novitiate.

_You’re strong._

And yet . . . you know that crying—in front of _her_ —you know that this time, it’s not a weakness.

“ _Heda_ ,” you say, hiccupping over the two syllables—the word that had been your one true deliverance in _that_ world, in _that_ time. She’s a beacon of strength, of hope, of peace—she’s the Commander, and you know she loves you as fiercely as you love her.

You know, because she’d been there to calm you after every night terror, after every terrible lesson with the _Fleimkepa_. You know because for all intents and purposes, _Heda_ had become synonymous to _Nomon_ , and under the cover of the night, it was what you and the other _naitblida_ had called her.

“Aden,” she says, and it is just a whisper, really, but to you it is as loud as the crowd’s cheers when she struck down the Ice Queen.

And with that you devolve into even more sobs, as you remember what had happened after that. “I . . . Heda, I’m _sorry_. I-I tried, I really did—we all did—b-but, I _failed_ —”

“Sssh, Aden,” she stops your rambling. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” She looks at you, sincere and proud, and it’s too much.

She can’t be proud of you, not after failing so magnificently at the only thing she ever asked of you.

_Protecting the Sky Princess. Protecting Wanheda._

And you start again, because _Wanheda_ . . .

You turn your head, and yes, she’s here. Elyza. No. _Clarke Griffin._ She smiles at you, freely granting you the absolution you’ve been craving for but never believed you deserve.

You fight against the emotions caught in your throat, and you regard your _Heda_ again. “If love could have given you life, Heda, you would have lived forever,” you say, remembering the tears your brothers and sisters shed for her, the woman who had protected them till her last breath.

“Death is not the end.” She’s smiling at you as she pats your head, the way she used to. “I _am_ alive, Aden,” she murmurs. “And my spirit will live forever.”

 

****

 

You’re thirteen years old.

It’s the end of the world.

 

You are not alone.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was supposed to work on my other The 1oo fic, but I opened another doc, and here we are. Oops. Sorry? I just have lots of Aden feelings. And sleep won't have me until I at least spew out something for it. 
> 
> (Fun fact 1: This was supposed to be titled _The Boy Who Lived_. Lol.)  
>  (Fun fact 2: _Hedgren_ because _heda_ , which is Lexa's Commander persona, and Lexa's _green_ eyes always say much more than words ever could. Basically, Aden loves both sides of Lexa.)
> 
> Yell at me or something at [A Blank Canvas](http://agentjoannemills.tumblr.com/ask) or [@eyyogg](https://twitter.com/eyyogg). Let us all cry together.  
> Ste yuj.


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